The aftermath of the battle hung heavy in the air, thick with the coppery tang of goblin blood and the sudden, jarring quiet. Theron surveyed the carnage, his expression grim but professional. "We should move them off the road," he stated, already bending to grab the nearest fallen goblin by its limbs. "Don't want to attract scavengers, or scare off other travelers."

  Aren nodded, taking a step forward to help. The moment he put weight on his right leg, agony erupted. It wasn't just a sting; it felt like his bone grated against itself, a white-hot wave of pain that nearly sent him sprawling onto the mossy ground. He stumbled, catching himself just barely. Fuck, I must have broken my leg kicking that bastard.

  "Sir Aren!" Milo cried out, rushing over. Seeing Aren’s pained face and precarious balance, his voice dropped low, hushed. "Finn, help Sir Aren to the cart. Theron and I will handle... this." Everyone seemed instinctively quieter now, the recent violence making them wary of any sound that might draw more trouble from the deep woods.

  Finn, whose face was pale as scraped bone, approached. His own legs still seemed unsteady beneath him, but he offered Aren a surprisingly firm shoulder for support. Leaning heavily on the boy, Aren hobbled the few steps back to the cart, each jolt sending fresh waves of nausea and pain through him.

  While Milo helped Theron drag the light goblin corpses into the dense undergrowth, the guard paused to retrieve his arrows from the fallen hounds. He inspected each one carefully, discarding those that were splintered or bent, salvaging what he could. The cleanup was swift, efficient, driven by the need to move on. Nearby, the mule-steeds, utterly indifferent to the recent chaos, continued to graze calmly, tearing mouthfuls of lush green moss from the forest floor.

  Getting Aren settled inside the cart was an awkward, painful process. Once he was finally lying somewhat stretched out on the rough planking, propped against cargo sacks, the small caravan started moving again. They plunged back into the emerald light of the Titanwood, the massive trees closing in around them once more.

  Silence descended, thick and tense. No one spoke. The only sounds were the rhythmic creak of the cart wheels, the steady plodding of the mule-steeds, and the occasional distant, unidentifiable cry of some forest creature. Every shadow seemed deeper, every rustle of leaves more menacing. If another fight broke out now, Aren knew he’d be useless. Theron would be alone. The guard was clearly capable, a skilled fighter, but the transformed Dark Goblins had been something else entirely – faster, stronger, unnervingly resilient. An unexpected threat far beyond what a typical escort duty entailed. Theron’s Observer abilities were invaluable for detection and guidance, but he wasn't primarily a heavy damage dealer. If only those hounds hadn't forced him to waste arrows, Aren thought, grimacing against a fresh throb from his leg. This could have ended much faster, maybe without me breaking myself. They had won, yes, but it felt like a costly victory earned through sheer desperation and perhaps a bit of luck.

  Theron worked quietly beside Aren. Using strips torn from clean spare cloth and short, sturdy pieces of wood, debris from the broken cart, he fashioned a makeshift splint for Aren's injured leg, binding it firmly but carefully. He then cleaned and bandaged the gash on Aren's shoulder, the scrapes on his forearms, and wrapped his cracked ribs tightly to provide support. The guard's focused movements spoke volumes about the extent of the injuries. He didn't need to say anything; his expression conveyed his professional concern.

  Should have asked Lycas for some of that healing water, Aren berated himself silently. It worked wonders on Isla. But Lycas was talking so much, couldn't bear to hear another word.

  Theron tended to his own minor wounds next – mostly superficial scratches – before settling back against the cart's side. He closed his eyes, and soon a translucent aura shimmered into existence around him, pulsing gently. I wonder if he uses meditation in some other way than I was taught. Does it speed healing? Prevent infection? Or just sharpen his senses further? Whatever its purpose, Theron seemed calmer within its soft glow.

  The slow, jolting journey continued. With nothing else to do besides endure the pain, Aren had ample time for reflection. He replayed the fight in his mind, analyzing his actions. Unlike the chaotic incident with Isla, where helplessness had gnawed at him, this felt different. They had faced a direct threat, and he had acted decisively. Milo and Finn were safe. He was injured, yes, but that had always been an acceptable cost in his previous life. Protecting others often came at a price.

  A sense of deep satisfaction, mingled with pride, settled within him. He had finally accessed his Ether consciously, directing it, using it as a tool rather than being consumed by blind rage. It hadn't been perfect – shattering his own bones wasn't exactly efficient power usage – but the nature of the Ether felt fundamentally altered. The first time, it had been a wildfire, consuming him, burning uncontrollably outwards. This time felt more like… focusing sunlight through a lens. A concentrated beam, a spear point aimed with intent. Destructive, yes, but channeled. Controlled.

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  What kind of Ether user am I, anyway? The question circled back. He ran through the types he knew. Enhancers focused on physical reinforcement – strength, resilience. If he were one, he wouldn't have broken his leg delivering that kick, nor felt his knuckles protest against the leader’s hide. Accelerators emphasized speed, which hadn’t been his primary advantage, though he had felt quicker. Observers relied on heightened senses, perception manipulation. His senses had definitely sharpened during the fight, allowing him to react to Theron’s calls almost instantly, but the raw power he'd unleashed felt offensive, not sensory. Maybe something offense-oriented? High damage, low defense? He didn't know the local term for such a specialization yet, but the feeling of directed power, distinct from pure physical enhancement or speed, was undeniable. There was much more to learn, much more control to master.

  Milo passed the small cask of mead back. Everyone took a long pull, the rough, sweet liquid doing little to truly ease the tension but offering a momentary warmth against the lingering chill of fear. Finn remained quiet, his eyes wide, still staring blankly at the torn canvas wall of the cart.

  After what felt like an eternity winding through the colossal trees and unnatural twilight, a brighter light began to filter through the canopy ahead. The air grew less heavy, the oppressive feeling lifting. Gradually, the giant trees gave way to smaller, more familiar oaks and maples. Finally, the cart rolled out from under the dense ceiling of the Titanwood just as the sun dipped towards the horizon.

  A collective sigh of relief went through the small group, audible even over the rumble of the wheels. "Alright, pick it up!" Milo called out to the mule-steeds, his voice regaining some of its usual heartiness. The need for stealth was gone. Open country lay before them – rolling hills bathed in the soft evening light, dotted with familiar trees and the meandering sparkle of a distant river. The scent of wildflowers and tall grass drifted on the breeze, a welcome, cleansing contrast to the heavy smell of the ancient forest.

  "There's a farming settlement just ahead," Milo announced, pointing. "Good folk there. We'll stop, get this cart patched up properly. And I, for one, am going to find a barrel of ale and see how much of it I can drink." He managed a shaky chuckle. "Think I lost ten years off my life back there."

  Aren found himself smiling faintly despite the pain. Milo's attempt at humor, his resilience after facing down monstrous goblins, earned his respect. They reached the settlement quickly – a collection of sturdy farmhouses and barns clustered near the river. An ingenious system of wooden channels, reminiscent of ancient Roman aqueducts, diverted water from the river to irrigate the fields laid out on slightly lower ground. Levers and gates allowed the farmers to control the flow. Simple, yet effective engineering.

  As their battered cart rattled into the village square, several settlers looked up from their evening chores. At first, they seemed curious. Then their expressions changed to concern as they saw the splintered wood, the torn canvas roof, and how tired and hurt the travelers looked. Milo clearly knew people here, and they greeted him right away. He wasted no time telling the story of their scary fight in the Titanwood, sounding a little out of breath as he spoke. More villagers came out of their homes, drawn by the commotion. They listened with wide eyes, sometimes gasping at the details. Offers of help came quickly.

  While Milo and Finn checked the damage to the cart, a woman with kind eyes and gentle, capable hands came forward. She was a healer. She carefully looked over Aren, tut-tutting softly at Theron’s rough bandages before cleaning the wounds again. Expertly applied a strong-smelling, soothing herbal paste. She also gave Aren a bitter but warming drink that helped dull the sharp pain coming from his leg.

  At the same time, several helpful farmers joined Milo and Finn. They brought tools and spare timber. Working together quickly under the fading light, they replaced broken planks and patched the torn canvas cover. They even found some strips of metal to add to the cart's frame. The cart didn’t look new, but the repairs were solid. It was now stronger than it had been before the ambush.

  Once the cart was fixed and Aren was resting more comfortably, Theron went to speak with the village elder, a weathered man with a calm face. Theron explained their situation and thanked the elder for the village’s quick assistance. Then, he quietly pressed a generous handful of silver coins into the old man's hand. The elder’s eyes widened slightly before he beamed, clapping Theron firmly on the shoulder. He announced that their unexpected guests, who had survived such danger and shown such kindness, would be honored with a small feast.

  The unplanned meal was simple but deeply welcome. They enjoyed tasty roasted bird, crusty loaves of fresh bread, chunks of sharp cheese, and mugs of hearty ale passed around a crackling bonfire in the center of the square. The mood was warm, friendly, and blessedly normal. However, despite the villagers' genuine kindness and the comfort of the firelight, Aren knew they couldn't afford to stay too long. Silon, and Lycas’s demanding deadline, still waited.

  After everyone had eaten their fill and rested for a short while, the cart was securely loaded once more. Aren offered his sincere thanks to the healer and the elder. Theron added his own formal words of gratitude. Milo promised cheerfully to return soon with valuable trade goods. With warm farewells and calls of "Safe travels!" echoing behind them, the repaired cart rolled slowly out of the small farming settlement. It turned back onto the main road heading south, leaving the memory of the Titanwood, and the brief, welcome break of the village feast, behind them in the deepening night.